


in my arms flowering so new

by littledust



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-13
Updated: 2006-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:51:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neville plans a memorial garden at Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in my arms flowering so new

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from an E.E. Cummings poem. :) Researched lovingly and hopefully enjoyed! For [](http://zeldaophelia.livejournal.com/profile)[**zeldaophelia**](http://zeldaophelia.livejournal.com/) in the [](http://community.livejournal.com/nevillosity/profile)[**nevillosity**](http://community.livejournal.com/nevillosity/) Late Bloomer II ficathon.

He came with shovels and seeds. He came with tomato plants, with sweet violets, with some hybrid of two magical plants previously found only in Tibet. He came with creaking muddy boots and wizard's robes more brown than black, well-worn where he knelt in the earth. He came with all his world in bags, secret things that had yet to take root.

"A memorial garden," had said Professor McGonagall, who would ever be Professor McGonagall to him, despite the translucency of her skin in the sunlight. She had grown old, his teacher, her thorns snipped by sadness. "He would have wanted no things of stone. There wasn't time before, but Hogwarts is near rebuilt now. Please, make something beautiful. For everyone."

Neville, carrying his things to the old greenhouse that would serve as his quarters, was glad that he had returned in the springtime. The days had warmed and the air was filled with the bustle of rebuilding, gruff shouts and the laying of the last few stones of the castle. Hogwarts would open again in a year and a half. Hogwarts would open again. The words were more magic than ever a spell could be.

Grass had grown everywhere the new garden was to be; Neville did not mind, as it meant something green to soften the land. He walked around the edges, kicking aside the occasional rubble. There was the spot where the greenhouses used to be, where his own Professor Sprout had made her last stand in the second Hogwarts attack. He closed his eyes and sent up a brief prayer: for her, for his parents, for all those returned to the good earth. What better way to begin the planning of the garden than to remember those for whom it was meant?

There would be a face for every flower, that much he knew.

He did not join the professors and the construction workers that evening in the Great Hall. He did not feel particularly hungry and he had a house to set up, Hagrid's cabin of old. He set down his boxes and then set to sweeping out accumulated dust, sneezing all the while. Then came wiping off the shelves, though Neville left the spiderweb. He had seen enough delicate beauty destroyed, and a spider had a right to a home as much as anyone. So he stocked the cabinets with foodstuffs and gardening tools, stacked his books on the shelves, placed a few photographs in choice locations. The cabin did not become a bit of a home (just a bit, as he had not been there long) until he found places in the sun for his plants, _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ and pansies alike.

The next day found him walking barefoot around the future garden, thinking with his feet. Good soil. The Death Eaters had torn down the castle walls but not even they could contaminate the earth. There was a certain quiet satisfaction in the thought, though Neville had never doubted it for an instant. He had kept the faith for much of his life, even before the war when so much else in the world seemed uncertain and he was certain that nobody would ever be proud of him.

When the request came from Hogwarts to create a memorial garden, his Gran had actually set down her teacup, an event unto itself, as she demanded the first cup of the morning be absolutely undisturbed. She had fixed her eyes on Neville and said, "Well, I suppose you might go, if it's to honor the dead." Neville had almost cried into his eggs; she had given him her blessing, she had let him go, to wherever else his life might take him. But instead he said, "With your permission, Gran."

It was April now, and the term began in September. Neville thought of plants and time. The snowdrops and the crocuses and the bluebells would come with or without his help. Heather was lovely and bloomed for much of the year. Primroses would provide color early in the spring. Daffodils and tulips, a colorful necessity. Rhododendrons, azaleas, hawthorn, lilac, forsythia. There ought to be dahlias even with the risk of frost. Begonias, pansies, and sweet peas for the summer. Of course there would be roses. And shrubs, there ought to be some shrubs, and perhaps a few trees...

Neville looked up from contemplation of the ground and Luna was there, radish earrings dangling, a necklace of dandelions about her neck. She smiled, looking a bit less abstract than usual. "You should plant rosemary, that's for remembrance," she suggested.

"Perhaps," Neville said, and then, "Hello."

Luna hopped from one foot to the other experimentally, then kicked her shoes off. "I wish the plants would talk to me like they talk to you. But I don't think it's something that can be taught. I've been thinking about teaching a lot lately. I think Professor McGonagall wants to keep us here."

There was no question as to who "us" referred to. Dumbledore's Army, the war veterans, they who had made the Last Stand in a little field in some underpopulated corner of England, the site of the last Horcrux. The rain had felt like acid and then came the thunder and lightning, stirred up by all the spells shrieking below. They had formed a ring around Harry, so few for so many Death Eaters, and held out until dawn; the final Horcrux was not able to be destroyed except in the first rays of sunlight of the new year--the trick being that the "new year" began on the day of Voldemort's birth. There were no songs about that battle, not yet. Singers could not write when the bloodstains remained in the world even still.

"Everything goes back to Hogwarts," Neville agreed with a smile of his own, already mapping the garden in his mind. The paths should not be too straight; Dumbledore would have approved of a bit of circles and crookedness, and anyway it made for a more natural environment. "Who else is here?"

"Harry and Ron and Hermione, of course. I don't think they know how to separate anymore, but that's all right. Terry and Padma are helping Madam Pince re-shelve the library. Dean has been fixing the portraits. Ginny followed Harry. She says that's not why she's here, but she's not much good at reconstruction."

They shared a moment of silence, for the changes war brought and all the people left out of Luna's description. Parvati had no intention of ever leaving India. Hannah still lived somewhere secluded in the countryside, recovering from her war wounds. And Seamus and Anthony and so many others had died, whether on that final night or any one of the innumerable others.

To lighten the mood (or perhaps not--one never could tell with Luna), Luna suggested they go look for Crumple-Horned Snorcacks, and so they went.

  
* * * * *

  
Neville had a long and serious argument with himself about the ethics of using magic to cause the planted seeds and bulbs to germinate. There were some that would flower on their own, some he had planted already blooming, but still--the garden wanted some tulips in particular. Professor McGonagall ought to have contacted him in the fall, but that was all right, she had other things on her mind. Perhaps it wasn't _really_ cheating to use a bit of magic to ensure the garden came to life in time for the beginning of term. But what would happen? Would they be all right? After several spectacular accidents over the course of history, wizard gardening spurned the use of spells except when absolutely necessary.

The bed of tulips offered no answers, no matter how long he stared at it.

He mentioned the problem over dinner in the refurnished Great Hall, thinking that perhaps Hermione might have some advice to offer on the matter. Much to his disappointment, all she said was, "You know much more about gardening than I do" and started taking more notes out of a large book. Ron was distracted by starting an argument with Hermione about how she needed to eat and to put the bloody research away for _once_. Harry watched the two bicker with a fond smile, and Neville did not care to bother him with a trifling matter like flower bulbs. Most of the time Harry looked a little sad, a little removed from everything around him.

Ginny seemed interested, however. "What sort of spell is it? Does it speed time up? Won't the flowers die earlier that way?" In the war, she had displayed a distinct talent for breaking down the components of spells and then creating her own; unsurprising, considering how creative Fred and George were.

"It's the reverse of, um, a contraceptive spell," Neville explained, turning red in spite of himself. "Flowers don't need much encouragement to be fertile, so they should spring right up."

After dinner, Ginny followed him back out to the garden, the late golden light making her hair glow. Neville was no connoisseur of feminine beauty, but he always noticed it in gardens. Something about the flowers, he guessed. "I'm just worried that they'll mutate, or die off, or--"

Her wand moved in a complicated swirl. A jet of blue light later, there were tulips swaying in the slight breeze, red and orange and yellow and white. Ginny smiled and tucked her wand away. "I think something so pretty is worth the risk, don't you think?" Her gaze took in the rest of the garden, the bright flowerbeds bordered by pale gray stones. "Oh," she said in a different voice, gentler, like when she was a little girl at Hogwarts and he was asking her to the Yule Ball. "I hadn't really noticed how much work you've done with this."

"It's not really finished yet," Neville said, awkward. "I lost a few plants in transplant and there are supposed to be benches but they're not ready yet. And I don't know about the way the colors blend in the east corner, and I'm worried that the apple tree won't make it." He closed his mouth before he could babble on further. All she had tried to do was compliment him--no, compliment the garden, which grew so beautifully all on its own.

They moved to some of the other flowerbeds and Ginny coaxed everything into life, easy as breathing. She seemed curiously at home, curious because she had never seemed the sort of girl to enjoy the feel of her hands in the soil, not even when other people their age started to notice her. Neville had always noticed her; it was rather like picking up a seed and sensing it would grow up beautifully. He had sometimes wondered if his mother had ever held him and sensed the same thing, if he had grown up the way she would have wanted him to. Maybe the wrappers meant yes. He would never know.

But there was always hope.

  
* * * * *

  
A knocking at the door interrupted tea with Luna one afternoon. Neville opened it and in strode Ginny, wringing out her hair on the floor. "It started _pouring_ while I was checking up on my tulips," she complained, shivering. She had become especially fond of the flowers she helped spring into life, and for the past few weeks took to eating lunch in the garden, chatting with Neville as he went about his work or just sitting quietly, enjoying the peace.

"These things happen on second Tuesdays," Luna said, fetching her a towel.

"Do they," Ginny replied, amused.

Luna nodded. "Second Tuesdays are known agents of serendipity. Which is why I ought to go out walking, something good is bound to happen." She got up without so much as a request for an umbrella, turning to look over one shoulder and toss Neville an inscrutable expression before heading out the door to certain drenching. Neville felt a trifle off-balance.

Had Luna Lovegood just _winked_ at him?

"I used to think she was completely batty," Ginny said after the door thudded shut. "Hasn't changed, really, but I don't think it's such a bad thing after all." She sat down in Luna's seat, picked up a sugar cookie. The towel was bright pink (courtesy of the Weasley twins and their idea of an appropriate present) and went horribly with her hair, but her freckles crinkled when she smiled, and she smelled of flowers.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised.

"Luna's a good sort," he agreed, and poured her a cup of tea. "I'll miss her when she goes. She likes to travel, that one, and write books that her publisher insists on marketing as fiction. I never knew she could write until we had to keep in contact by letter."

Ginny spooned a few lumps of sugar into her tea and stirred. "That's very sweet. When is the wedding?"

He went red again. "W-Wedding? She's not--we're not--I mean..."

She looked surprised. "You aren't? You're such good friends, so I just assumed." Her voice trailed off and she looked down at the floor, which Neville remembered with some embarrassment that he had forgotten to sweep today. "Of course, I'm the last person who ought to be making assumptions."

There was a story there, so he just sipped at his tea and waited for her to tell it.

"I love Harry," she began, out and saying it right away like a true Gryffindor, even with the tears in her eyes. "I loved him my whole life. I was never so happy as when we were dating, before the Quest. Before everything. But notice how it's always Harry and Ron and Hermione now? Everyone says them in a list. They've always been best friends, but it's different. Ron and Hermione have each other and Harry is a-alone, and I think he l-likes it that way." Ginny paused to blow her nose on a napkin, sniffing fiercely to keep the tears at bay. "Something happened that year and I don't think he'll ever love me again. Everyone thinks I follow him everywhere but I just wanted him to tell me to go away. But he won't. He doesn't n-notice." She buried her face in her arms and began to sob, there on the tablecloth.

At first Neville knew not what to do but then the scent of her hit him again, flowers. _Flowers._ You sheltered them from frost, nursed them back to health from sickness. He moved his chair over so he could put an arm around her shoulders, and she moved up to his chest, crying into it until all the tears were gone. Her skin was still cold from rainwater and he rubbed at her back, trying to coax some warmth back. Ginny Weasley was no delicate blossom, but neither did she seem to thrive in the cold.

The clock on the wall ticked and he began to wonder if she hadn't fallen asleep. She seemed to be warmer, at least, and the ends of her hair had dried, a bit frizzy and soft to the touch. The rain had eased up, not so much a maelstrom as a steady downpour, the gentle sort that was good for plants. He hoped the garden (and Luna) enjoyed it.

Then Ginny kissed him.

 _Flowers,_ he thought again, and skin soft like petals, and the intimacy of it all shocked him. He had kissed girls before but it seemed more two separate people each kissing the other, never this interlocking of lip and tongue and something else besides. He somehow understood that she needed to be kissed, and held, and loved a little, and she... well, she maybe could feel his need to grow things, to cultivate them until they were lovely to behold. Ginny needed to start blossoming once more.

The kiss ended, as kisses must eventually. Again there was only the ticking of the clock for some time, Neville looking at Ginny and she looking back, flushed and out of breath and yet thoughtful all the same, as if some secret nature of reality had been revealed to her.

"I could fall in love with you," she murmured.

Neville did not question her.

Ginny stood at the exact instant the sun came out from behind the clouds, flooding the little room with light. "Professor McGonagall told me you're staying on as Herbology professor, and Harry's to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, of course. So... Neville, you know, don't you? You know. I have to leave Hogwarts. I have to go. And when I love Harry like a brother, like Ron or Bill or... well, you know their names. But I'll come back. I promise. I'm going."

Unlike Luna, she took an umbrella for her walk back to the castle.

  
* * * * *

  
Hogwarts reopened and Neville found himself in love with his job, especially with taking the little ones through the garden and telling them stories of the brave people it honored. He left out the blood and the mess and the pain, mostly, because after all it was their courage that mattered most. He brought them to the greenhouses and stressed the importance of honoring life, with the weight of even the smallest seedlings. He hoped they loved the plants even a little as they gathered bits of them for ingredients.

The garden flourished in autumn, then gave way to winter and snow. Some of the shrubs remained green, and of course the evergreens did, but even still he waited for spring. The heart of spring, not the tenderness of early spring, but tulip time, red and orange and gold.

Some might have called him mad for waiting, for believing, but every gardener must have faith in his flowers. And it made perfect sense to Luna, judging from her letters, and he had long ago learned to trust her capacity for knowing things, even if what she knew lay outside the boundaries of ordinary reality.

One morning, he found that the tulips had opened up.

One morning, he found Ginny in his garden.

"I came back," was all she said.

He took her in his arms.


End file.
